


Touch'd with human gentleness

by Ambrose



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:44:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrose/pseuds/Ambrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamlet asked him to tell his story, and Horatio really intends to do so. Only some things are not for everyone to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch'd with human gentleness

There was a commotion outside his door, the guards trying to ward off an intruder, by the sound of it. Fortinbras got up, weary, and looked for his sword in the near darkness. He could not sleep anyway – thinking of the last occupants of that royal bed and what Fate had done to them. When he had set out for Denmark, it was to quell his anger and offer rest to his father's soul; he never thought he'd end up there, at the head of Denmark by some providence, a pile of corpses to bury and a State to govern that had been plunged in chaos by the time he had arrived.

When he made it to the door – in his nightgown, sword in hand, probably looking more like a ghost than a king – he saw that the two guards he had appointed to watch on his sleep were keeping Horatio at bay; telling him to go sober up elsewhere. But as he approached, he could see that the man was not drunk. _He wouldn't be_ , Fortinbras reflected. No, that was not how Horatio would choose to honour his friend's memory. 

“Let him go”, he ordered.

“But, my lord...”

“Let him go,” Fortinbras repeated, in a much quieter voice. “He is our countryman too; he presents no risk.”

He had been astonished to find him here – the child of a minor baron of the Court of Norway, sent to Wittemberg a few years prior to Fortinbras becoming king. He'd barely known him then, but enough to see how inoffensive he was. He had been more than willing to believe his story when he had told them what happened. His men sniggered at the ghosts, but Fortinbras knew better. How often had he thought he could hear his father? How many times had he wished for him to be there again, to take back the weight of ruling a nation –  _now two,_ he thought – of being dignified and proud and assertive and not showing his grief lest the crows circling around him seize the opportunity to maim him.

He retreated to his chambers, lit a candle and sat in an armchair, motioning for Horatio to do the same, but the young man started pacing the room instead.

“Can I do anything for you?” Fortinbras asked softly.

It took Horatio a long moment to answer.

“He... Hamlet asked me to tell his story before joining him.”

However impious his thoughts were, Fortinbras thought better than to interrupt him.

“I don't want him to be remembered only by these events. He was a... friend before he was a prince. But this story is not for all the world to hear; they would not understand; they would turn him into a caricature, a joke of a man – or say he deserved this end. But I cannot keep silent.”

A sob escaped him, and he looked away. Fortinbras had never been good at comforting people – he knew pain, but had never found himself ways to overcome it – he simply did not have the words to help others. In this instant, he felt completely helpless, and wished he could do something.

“I just...” Horatio tried, his voice heavy with grief, and tears he tried to repress. “I told you what you wanted to hear – I told you of all the politics – politics he despised more than death itself, which he'd have welcome as a relief. Politics were his prison. I told you of revenge, and the ghosts that haunted him. Of his father's death, his mother's treachery, and all the things of the court which might have interested you lot. And yet...” He breathed out slowly, visibly trying to calm himself down, but it was no use. “I was the only one to care about the man himself. And Ophelia. She too... She too loved him. And they all used her as a tool to gain a bit more power – on this rotten mess of a state, or on Hamlet, either way – and even in her death, all they could praise was her beauty, and all they could talk about was how themselves loved her, how she'd have made such a good queen! Heaven forbid! Did they see all the love she bore the lot of them? Did they see the wonderful person she was – how she went through all they imposed on her, for their schemes, their plotting – as true to herself as could be in such a position – a queen indeed –” he let out a sad chuckle, “if Hell ever saw such a perfect example of virtue and kindness be queen! And Hamlet loved her, too – and despised her for it, when he thought she might be using him as others did – Hamlet did nothing by half, and hated himself and her so much – as he saw his own mother in her, treacherous and manipulative when she was loving and gentle!”

Still pacing the room, Horatio sounded angry now – and with good reason. When the moonlight caught his features Fortinbras could see tears running down his cheeks. He wanted to take him in his arms and comfort him, but there was no telling him everything would be okay when it evidently would not – he could not by any sorcery bring him back the ones he loved.

“If only they hadn't plagued them with their grand designs of power – Time would have brought back a smile to his face. We'd have gone back to Wittenberg, away from all this; in time he would have been happy again. But they had to dissect their love – could they not see what other cause of grief he could have, than affection for a woman – which she returned! No indeed – one grieves for love more than for a dead father twice dead for that he has been forgotten of all. I shall make sure Hamlet does not die twice, for I shall remember him – commit every detail to memory, everyone of his smiles, every gesture of kindness, every kiss.”

He looked away again, as if in shame – as if he did not dare to look on Fortinbras's face and see there contempt or disgust, when really all there was was sadness and empathy.

“History will remember Prince Hamlet – my _lord_. I shall remember my friend, whom I loved most dearly.” He slumped down against the wall. “ _even if I never had the courage to tell him so._ ”

The last words were barely a whisper, but in the silence of the night, Fortinbras heard them ever so distinctly. He went to sit next to Horatio, taking him in his arms. Horatio was shivering, his whole body shaken by silent sobs; he tensed under the touch, and Fortinbras feared he'd bolt away.

“He knew,” Fortinbras whispered. “He trusted you as he did no-one else. More than he did Ophelia, whom you said he loved dearly. Do not blame yourself for words you never said – everything you did spoke them.”

Horatio did not answer; silence settled in again, this time devoid of tension. Fortinbras felt Horatio relax ever so slightly, and after a while, when sleep seemed to be taking over them both, he gently tug him up and towards the bed. Horatio mumbled something, and Fortinbras guessed his question by the astonished look on his face.

“You're tired – you need to sleep. I'm not letting you stumble your way back to your quarters.” _I'm not leaving you alone._ God knew what he'd be capable of, left on his own. Fortinbras felt the strange need to protect him. Maybe because they were the only ones left. Or because he understood his grief so very well.

Horatio did not protest. In fact, he fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the bed, exhausted by the day's events and the toll they had taken on him. Fortinbras was not so lucky however, and dawn found him shifting restlessly as he tried to get sleep yet could not get his mind off the tragedy that unfolded here, and the responsibility he now bore, to make things right in this wretched state.

But Horatio's sleep seemed agitated by nightmares, he mumbled Hamlet's name and cried out for help; and Fortinbras almost reflexively stroke his hair and whispered calming words.

No, restoring Denmark to its grandeur was not a goal he cared much to achieve, he reflected. He would do it, as was his duty, but he felt it was not worth the effort. But to make sure he could do one thing right, help one person, to the extent of his abilities – right the wrongs of others and see a smile again on the face of an old friend; to still be human in the end – that felt like something he could do.


End file.
